


Thanksgiving at the Bear's Den Diner

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21598600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker
Summary: AU, Reese runs a diner, Finch is a food critic.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

  


A mugging; "No, I'm fine, Detective Fusco," Finch insists, lying to the concerned police officer. "I've got to keep to my schedule."

The schedule of restaurants to review was strictly self-imposed. Harold Finch doesn't need the small paycheck from the Boroughs Magazine. Hell, he owns the damned thing, but he has to do something to fill the lonely hours between sleeps.

Finch, a foodie since birth and a critic for the past twenty-odd years, is pushed into covering this slightly seedy diner on the outskirts of the Village, cajoled by Fusco, a fellow foodie (and chunky, to boot) who assured him that the food was, quote unquote, divine. "And the owner ain't bad either," laughed Fusco, filling out the paperwork detailing the mugging. "If you won't go to the hospital, at least go see Reese. He'll treat you right!."

Not that Finch expects anything, truly; his idea of being treated might vary wildly from the proprietor of The Bear's Den Diner, especially on Thanksgiving morning.

*

The diner is clean, the original chrome fixtures gleaming impressively, matching the spotless table tops and floors. There are dozens of hand colored construction paper turkeys decorating the windows along with flyers advertising today's free Thanksgiving feast. Wondering how he's become so isolated as to not know today's Thanksgiving, Finch orders his standard review meal : eggs over easy and a side of bacon. The orange juice was fresh squeezed and the bread had to have been pulled out of the oven just before serving. 

There was nothing wrong with the meal, even if he preferred his bacon a little bit less crisp. And the eggs were fine the yolks intact and soft, really there was no reason to complain other than he was tired and lonely and, yes, bitter. Not to mention the pain radiating from the spot just above his temple where the mugger had struck him. Not to mention the dizziness that was taking hold.

Pushing back his plate Finch flinchs, leaning back into the patched yet adequately comfortable diner booth as the owner flopped down opposite him, taking off his unstylish yet sensible hairnet before extending a friendly hand.

"I'm John Reese, the owner and cook," admits the man in whites, all six foot three inches of sinewy grace and hair that matches the table's salt and pepper.

Finch trembles as he shakes Reese's hand, suddenly all too aware that the diner's simple curtains match the owner's terribly blue eyes

"I'm Finch," the older man manages, watching Reese's muscles playing beneath his tight, pristine white t-shirt.

"Was everything prepared to your specifications?" asked Reese. "I cooked it myself.:

My bacon was too crisp and my eggs undercooked," Finch whimpers, suddenly ashamed that he'd done anything to complicate this glorious man's life.

"Let me prepare you my specialty, Mr. Finch. Eggs Benedict, on the house. With a cup of Sencha, two sugars."

Reese suddenly covered Harold's sweaty hand with his own warm, calloused hand, squeezing it. "I promise I won't let you leave until you are _completely satisfied_ ," he whispered, dropping a lascivious wink before sprinting back to his kitchen.

Aghast at his body's immediate reaction, the reclusive food critic attempts flight, staggering three steps before tumbling to the scarred but pristine linoleum floor. Reese nearly drops the beautifully plated Eggs Benedict as he rushes to Finch' side.

"Mr. Finch?" he asks, patting the limp man's cheek. Reese winces, pulling back his fingers. There's was blood on the tips, blood from Finch's left temple. Finch is helped to his feet, trying to gain control of his obstinate body.

"I'm ok." "No, you aren't, Harold. Please, let me help you upstairs. I have a first aid kit and one of my tenants is a doctor. She'll be happy to take a look at you."

"I can walk." 

Doubtful, Reese agrees, wrapping a long arm around the shaking form as they carefully move through a door behind the kitchen and up a flight of stairs. "Just a second,," Reese assures him, opening another door into a small, dim apartment.

"How did you know I drink Sencha, John? With two sugars, no less?" asked Finch, leaning into the comfortable warmth of the couch, noting the warm smell of John's body on the pillows and blanket with a sigh and slight tightening of his groin. 

"I'm a fan of your work, Harold. Your reviews are always fair and balanced. You don't fall for the fad du jour and aren't stingy with honest praise. And you seem to mention tea quite a bit, mostly Sencha." Reese, pickied up his phone. "Just a second, Harold."

  



	2. Chapter 2

Within minutes, a young woman introduced as Shaw is checking Harold's vital signs and examining the bruised and bloody lump on the side of his head, cleaning and bandaging it. Harold gets the distinct impression that she is disappointed that things weren't worse.

"Your pupils are nice and even; It appears that you don't have a concussion," she sighs. "Might be best you go to the hospital but iyou could be all right to go home, as long as you have someone to watch over. No need to keep you awake but , you know..." Shaw's expression brightens. "...if you start vomiting or having seizures,."

"Damn it," whispers Finch. "I don't have anyone," he admits, blinking back tears as he realizes just how long it had been since Nathan had died and how could he have ever stopped counting the days?

"You can stay here," Reese offers, patting Finch's hand. "It won'tbe any trouble at all," he adds, returning Finch's shy, trembling smile with one of his own. Finch falls asleep, hand in hand with Reese.

*

Shadows fill the tiny apartment. Finch feels for his glasses, unhappy that his hand is no longer full but not for long.

"Glad you're back in the land of the living."

Reese has returned.

"I had to go baste the turkeys and putting the final touches on the pies. In about an hour, Bear's Den Diner starts serving free takeout Thanksgiving meals. I just wanted to change my shirt and..." He hesitates, swallowing hard. "And to check on you."

Finch blinks, adjusting to the dim light as he unabashedly watches Reese pulling off his stained apron and tight white t-shirt, exposing miles of soft tanned skin.

"Good to see you, too," Finch replies, entranced by Reese's smooth chest and dark nipples, Finch doesn't notice the scarring until the tall, dark man turns his back to pour their tea into two white cups. Silvery lines cross Reese' back, punctuated by deep dimples, bullet wounds. Finch shudders, a reaction of sympathy, not pity.

Carrying two cups in one large hand and a small plate of cookies with the other, Reese returns. "Lemon. My own recipe," Reese remarks, seeming to notice for the first time that he is nude to the waist. Chuckling, he took three long steps across the tiny apartment, to an old dresser, shrugging on another shirt, blue this time. It looked old, broken in and Finch suddenly clenched his fist to keep his fingers from tracing the frayed collar, from dipping down to see those collar bones once more.

Finch takes a sip while reaching for a cookie. He bites off a corner and chews, letting the flavors spread across his palate. Opening his eyes, Finch sees Reese staring intently; the chef (because to call him a mere cook was a disservice, akin to calling a nightingale a pigeon), awaiting the verdict. Finch swallows.

"Delicious!" he declares, moving his gaze from John's eyes to his lips. "Perfection."

"Thank you," replies Reese, taking his own bite of a cookie and Finch's eyes widen at the sight of the powdered sugar decorating Reese's mouth. Unable to stop his thumb from tracing the bow of his lips, Finch leans in. Reese does as well, breaching the gap between their bodies as Finch kissed him.

Breaking off with a spreading blush, Finch tries to apologize: "Mr. Reese, I'm usually not so bold."

His words are interrupted by Reese, now capturing Finch's lips, his tongue questing. Finch eagerly welcomes it, sighing as John moans into the kiss, the sound sending coils of warm to Finch's groin. Legs are parted, hips adjusted fingers and hands welcomed in spaces unaccustomed to such luxuries.

"It'ss been so long," breathes Reese, allowing Finch to pull the blue t-shirt over his head.

"Yes," sighs Finch, sliding off his trousers, suddenly shy; no one other than a medical professional had seen the extent of his scarring from the accident, three years prior.

Stopping, Reese looks at Harold with concern. "Wait, this might be wrong. What if you aren't thinking clearly? Maybe it's a sign of concussion?"

Finch places Reese's hand on his belly, sliding it under the waistband of his boxers.

"Oh!" Reese gasps, his fingers curling around the smaller man's erection.

"Does this feel like a concussion?" Finch asks, pushing against the warmth of Reese's palm. "I assure you I am in complete control of my faculties, Mr. Reese!"

His response takes Finch's breath; the lanky chef slides down to mouth and nuzzle the heat of Fincj's erection.

"M.m.maybe not so much ¦control at that," stammers the secret billionaire as Reese's mouth envelops his shaft. Reese doesn't stop, catching every drop Finch gives him. 

Finch returns the favor and there's still time to rest, belly to belly, before heading downstairs for dinner.


End file.
